


Control

by HostisHumaniGeneris



Series: Smutswap 2018 Fills [2]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Body Horror, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Mind Control, Non-consensual Transformation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Torture, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 13:28:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14021250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HostisHumaniGeneris/pseuds/HostisHumaniGeneris
Summary: Albert Wesker has won.  His greatest enemy is under his power, and presents a unique opportunity to test some of Wesker's theories regarding the way the host influences mutations.  Chris Redfield is at his lowest ebb.  However, when has infection ever been predictable?





	Control

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Silex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silex/gifts).



> Written for Smutswap 2018, in response to a request for fic where Chris was Wesker's captive instead of Jill, and he got mutated, with Wesker finding the results very... intriguing.

The P30 was wearing off.

Chris was aware of this because the mental fog was lifting; the world came into more and more detail.  He was always _aware_ , but things were coming in clearer, lines and stains on the cell floor were sharper, he heard the rhythmic shuffling of the guards with more clarity, he felt the itching at the P30 pump more acutely.  All at once he began scratching at his chest, at the pump.  He was never supposed to touch it.  He had very strict orders not to, and because of the chemicals running through the pump, he wasn’t able to. 

It had been a long time since he’d been able to do anything of his own volition.

He just tried, and tried, and tried to force his limbs to move in the ways he wanted them to, to make any sort of progress.  To disobey any order that Wesker gave, even if it was just twitching his finger when told to stay still.  And as often as he tried, he failed.  He’d long since lost track of how long it had been; the last time someone said anything, it had been twelve months, but he’d lost count of the days since then.  He didn’t even know if it had been twelve months since his capture, since he was first put on P30, or what.  For over a year he was a passenger in his own body, as it was piloted by Wesker's commands.

But now the P30 was running out.  They hadn’t refilled the injector pump on his chest lately, and the drug wore off quickly.  This was  lucky oversight.  He was free.  He thought about how to get out of the cell, how to escape, get a message to the BSAA, get someone to finally put an end to Wesker.  God, he wanted to kill him himself, but he needed to be smart with his freedom.  He had to get out of this cell, and alert the BSAA.

Chris walked to the door and tried to suss out a way to pick the lock.  God damnit, he tried to force himself to remember Jill’s attempts to try to teach him proper lockpicking.  He wasn’t sure he could pick the lock from this side of the door… needed something thin and metal to try and force it.

He tore the room apart, tossing the cheap matress off his cot to look for anything under it, clawing at it to try and remove a spring, looking over the boots he was wearing to see if there was anything he could do with them, trying to break parts off of the sink.  Nothing doing.  His eyes settled on a small, metal lamp on an end table next to his bed. 

It was beyond worthless because there was nothing to do in the dark; he hadn’t read anything unless he was specifically told to, and the room didn’t have any books in it in the first place.  He tossed the lamp to the floor and beat it against the ground until it broke, and was starting to try and tear out some metal wiring when he heard the lock to his cell disengage and the door creak open.

“I see that the P30 wore off on schedule.” Wesker said, arms crossed.  Visible in the corridor behind him were several of the Plagas-Infectees, the Majini, with electrified batons and rifles.  So much for escape.

“On schedule?” Chris repeated, eyes locked on Wesker. This wasn’t an accident.  He shouldn’t have been surprised, but it hit him like a slap to the face anyways.  That faint little hope was fake, always had been.

Wesker ignored the question and looked about the room. “I must say, I disapprove of destroying your property.  Ah well, you'll be moved to new accommodations after the experiment.”

Chris squared his shoulders, gripped the remnant of the lamp like a cudgel, and tried to act like he had any more control over the situation than he had when he was hopped up on P30.  He knew the experiments Wesker performed here.  After all, he had helped the man out. “Uroboros?  Thought it was useless to you.”

“So you have been paying attention while on duty.  That’s good to know, Chris.” Wesker said, letting his hands drop to his sides.  He sounded almost proud at that.  “You’re right.  Unfortunately, Uroboros is too powerful, it kills too quickly…”

He droned on.  Yeah.  Wesker’s big plan, tracking down the source of the Progenitor Virus, his ultimate means of getting rid of all the worthless human chaff that overburdened the globe… was an abject failure.  If Chris hadn’t spent what seemed like forever following in Wesker’s wake, watching and helping those tests that proved how goddamn stupid Wesker’s plan had been, it would’ve been funny.  Chris sidestepped while he pontificated, looking at the door.  There were a few majini, with tasers.  It was a stupid gamble, but on he had to take.  He tensed his muscles and prepared to lunge, when Wesker leapt in front of him, looking down, almost annoyed as he wrapped up the speech.  “So yes… Uroboros is a failure.  Still, I have something _special_ planned for you.”

Fuck that.  Chris tossed the lamp at Wesker.  As if he had a chance to hit him with it.  Wesker dodged with zero difficulty and crossed the room in the blink of an eye.  Chris backed up, fists raised.  Then he screamed when Wesker sidestepped a punch, grabbed a hold of the P30 pump, and _yanked._ Whatever inside him it was anchored to held while the pump gave way.

He clutched his chest, and the hand came away bloody.  Seeing Wesker’s smug grin made him forget that and lash out.  Wesker had been obsessive about keeping his ‘toy soldier’, as the witch put it, in perfect shape.  But all the physical conditioning in the world meant very little at this point.  He couldn’t flee with the Majini in the way, and fighting wasn’t going to work.  All the fantasizing about punching Wesker in the face over these long nights had been just that, fantasy.

But it wasn’t like he had a better plan.

Wesker let him take a few swings, hitting nothing but air, before landing a palm strike right on the wound from the P30 pump.  Chris got sent backwards to the ground, and swore while Wesker stood by, grinning as he stared down at him.  Wesker let him get to his feet before attacking again.  He had to be hit at least three times, because he felt the impacts on his face, lower right ribs, and abdomen, before Wesker grabbed his shoulders, spun, and launched him at a wall.  Chris’ head bounced off it, and the world went out of focus for a split second.  The next thing he knew he was facedown on the ground.  As he tried to push himself up, a strong hand against the back of his head pressed his face against the dingy tile.  Chris bucked, thrashed, and swore.

He knew what was coming next.  The first bit of his captivity, before P30 made him obedient, this had happened a few times.  He’d thought nothing would be as humiliating, until he began being dosed with P30, and was on his knees, dutifully lapping his own cum from Wesker’s hands and begging to be fucked.  On Wesker’s orders, of course.

With his free hand, Wesker grabbed the neck of Chris's battlesuit and tore down, the material yielding all the way down to his legs.  On hand was on his neck, the other ran down the length of his spine.  Chris struggled to writhe out of his grasp, doubling his efforts when he heard a zipper being pulled.  It was absolutely no use.   Putting his hands on Chris’s hips in a painfully strong grasp, Wesker lined himself up, and after a brief pause, shoved in roughly.  Chris cried out, then clenched his jaws shut.  He struggled to suppress any reaction as Wesker slammed into him over, and over, and over.

“You know…” Wesker grunted, coiling an arm around Chris's neck and holding him close as he drove in. “… I regret not taking you off P30 earlier.  I forgot how much fun it was when you put up a fight.”

At the moment he regretted not having the mental fog of the P30 at the moment.  Wesker kept slamming his cock into him for what seemed like an eternity, letting his free wander around and begin fondling Chris’s cock.  When he was finished, Wesker shoved Chris onto his back, curled his fingers around Chris’s cock, and began running his hand up and down, commenting on how much Chris seemed to enjoy this.

Chris slammed his eyes shut and waited for it to be over. 

He’d gotten a lot of practice at that ever since the two of them went out the window.

* * *

The next few weeks were busy. 

The prep work for the experiment was rigorous, with Chris receiving round the clock attention.  Sleep deprivation, electrocution, drownings, beatings, starvation.  It was a fine balance, trying to keep him alive while pushing him to the brink of death.  Wesker oversaw it with rapt attention, and never hesitated to participate when the opportunity arose.  Even if Excella tried to distract him with frivolities regarding the Majini and handouts to that weasel Irving.

The time flew by.  In some ways it was hard to control himself.  Chris had been a thorn in his side for years, then a useful asset.  Watching him gasp for breath when let up for air, water streaming down his face; hearing him scream when wired to a car battery, tensing and thrashing; feeling him inside and out after a long day, it was difficult not to get carried away.

Chris hollowed out, shedding fat and muscle that had been carefully managed throughout his captivity.  By the end of things, he was skeletal, bruised, and almost catatonic when left alone.  Then the day came.  Chris was wheeled down on a gurney to one of the labs.  Still managed to break a Majini’s nose before they managed to secure them.  Chris’s stubbornness was always his most annoying, and interesting, trait.

He dismissed the Majini.  Wheeled the tray with the syringe next to the gurney and paused.  Leaned over Chris.  For some reason, it was _important_ that Chris was aware of the point of all of this

“I’ve come to a revelation.” Wesker said, leaning in close.  “About the progenitor virus, and its derivatives.”

Chris wasn’t paying attention.  A few straight weeks of attention left him unable to focus.  Grabbing a fistful of his hair, Wesker snapped the fingers of his free hand right in front of Chris’s face.  He seemed to regain focus for a split second, but quickly glazed over.  Wesker backhanded him as light as he could.  He wanted Chris’s attention, not unconsciousness.

Satisfied that Chris would pay attention for a t least a little while longer, Wesker carried on. “It came to me in Russia… remember Sergei Vladimir?”

Chris stared at him dumbly. 

Like a teacher explaining things to a particularly unhelpful pupil, Wesker explained.  “Umbrella’s Security Chief.  The B.S.A.A. might’ve encountered an unknown B.O.W.’s corpse in the Red Queen facility during the cleanup?  While you and Agent Valentine were dealing with T-A.L.O.S., me and Sergei were settling a… professional rivalry.”

“Jill…” Chris had a faraway look on his face.  His mind was wandering again.  Sighing, Wesker slapped him again.

“Sergei was… torn apart.  He served the Soviet Union until it collapsed, then gave his loyalty whole-heartedly to a Western company, which he stuck with until it collapsed.  He self-mutilated.  Then when he transformed, he was torn apart from the inside out.  The very picture of suffering.”

Chris narrowed his eyes; it was unclear if he was blacking out or if he was simply doubting what he was being told.

“That is a single data point, true.  But take Marcus, for example.  A man weathered by age, an old, decrepit genius.  When his leeches brought him back, he was in the prime of his life…”

“…Until Rebecca pissed him off enough.” Chris shot back.  He was paying attention, after all.  “He wasn’t exactly youthful anymore.”

“Then a… co-worker of mine has been doing research on viruses triggered by specific neurotransmitters, in particular, fear.”  Wesker continued, undaunted.  Alex’s work served as something approaching validation of the concept, although her aims were substantially different than his.  He had not yet received a finished version of her virus, although she had been quite willing to share her notes.  In some ways he felt perhaps he should have cut her in on this particular program, though he had quite the personal investment in it.  “I think mental state affects the course of mutations when someone is infected.”

“And what about all the zombies?  How do they fit your theory?” Chris asked.  Wesker growled.  Chris’s insistence on being a pain was spoiling this moment. 

“They’re failures.  Most people on this world are thoroughly worthless, pointless.  Why should they be anything special when infected when there was never a hope for them to be anything better?”

“So... this revelation is the same moronic bullshit you were using to justify the plan with Uroboros.”  Chris erupted into coughing and wheezing when Wesker drove his fist into his stomach.  It took him over a minute to regain the strength to barely cough out “Why am I supposed to care?”

“You’ve been an incredible thorn in my side for a long time, Chris.”  Wesker wasn’t sure if Chris was coughing or laughing in reply.  “Ever since the mansion, you constantly interfered with my designs, constantly got in my way…  Until you and I went through the window.  That decision seemed to have changed our fortunes.”

In truth, simply killing Chris had crossed Wesker’s mind when they landed.  But that would’ve been too much of a waste, no matter how satisfying it would have been.  Admittedly, until P30 came to be, keeping Chris alive was mainly a means of repaying him for years of his interference.  Reminding Chris that he was beneath him.  A diversion from Uroboros, that became more and more fascinating as his plans met more and more setbacks.

“You’ve been most useful to me these past few years.” Wesker said, smiling as Chris clenched his eyes shut.    Once they had P30, Chris was useful for so much more than a distraction.  He was a helpful lab assistant, useful for disposing of interlopers, and being so very pliant introduced so many more possibilities for Wesker to satisfy his urges.  The technician’s reports that he was fully conscious of his actions was just a bonus.  Chris served him in every way possible.

The way things were meant to be.

“If you’re done with this trip down memory lane… get to the point already.”  Always impatient.  Part of Wesker was glad that Chris hadn’t broken through the years.  Another part of him was angry he hadn’t.

“Have you ever heard the Nietzsche quote ‘that which does not kill us, makes us stronger’?”  With that Wesker picked up the syringe.  Chris was a stubborn, determined adversary, and had lasted through years of every kind of abuse Wesker could think to throw at him.  The past few weeks off of P30 were simply adding on to the strain Chris was under, a last-ditch effort to pile on the damage.  “We’ve pushed you right against that edge.  And the Ndipaya people who discovered this place?  The flowers they used contained the Progenitor virus… they’d use it to separate the weak from the strong.”

“Just get it over with already.” No fear.  Admirable, but so unsatisfying.    “I’ve figured this was coming for the past three years, Wesker. Was the speech really necessary?”

When the syringe delved into flesh and the injection site turned red and Chris began screaming, it was all worth it.  “Time to see what kind of man you really are, Chris.”

* * *

When the screaming stopped, it took Chris too long to realize he hadn’t been wheeled back to his cell.  It was better lit, with a window of one-way glass along the left-hand wall.  It was bright white, and he kept squinting at how bright it was.  There was no bed, either.  The Majini left him lying naked on the floor, arms manacled to the wall.  His throat was raw… how long had he been screaming? 

Every nerve in his body had been on fire, starting where the injection had occurred and spreading up and down.  It felt like the bones of his hand were being pulled apart in every direction as it blazed its way to his fingers, and up his shoulder.  His brain was boiling in his skull and he had flitted in between consciousness and unconsciousness, writhing and howling.

He had no idea how long it had been.

Even now, he ached and the room spun and felt cold even though he was covered in a sheen of sweat.  He was infected.  He knew that much.  He was running out of time.  He absentmindedly sat against the wall, scratching at the injection site at his left elbow. 

Wesker had won.  Much as he would’ve liked to pretend otherwise… pretend that the fact Uroboros was a bust and he’d managed to tackle Wesker through a window, once, meant that things were somehow in dispute, Wesker had complete control over him.  And when he finally got bored of having Chris infect villagers or take a cock down his throat, Wesker had taken the last thing Chris had.

Humanity.

The notion that soon he wouldn’t have the capability to resent the way things had played out flitted through his mind for a split second, but it didn’t help.  Wesker would carry on with his insanity.  All Chris could do is spitefully hope that someone, somewhere would finally put the bastard down.  He’d almost wish it would be Jill… but he wouldn’t want her here, finding out just what Wesker had been up to all these years. 

Jill would be better off thinking the fall killed him.

Chris swore, then got up and walked as far as the chains would allow.  He could get to either side of the room, but not to the door.  It looked heavier than the one in his cell.  Escape had been a pipe dream then, now?  In a short time; hours, days, weeks, he’d probably get used to the cage.  Because he wasn’t going to be a person anymore.  He continued scratching.  This goddamn itch...

His fingers came back red and wet.

He raised his left arm and examined the bicep.  The skin was peeling away where he’d been scratching the most.  It was pulled away, like strips of old wallpaper.  A flap about the length of his index finger dangled from a thread.  There was blood, but not as much as there should have been.  Something pale and rubbery lay underneath.

A trick of the light made it seem like it _flowed_.

Tentatively, he grabbed the dangling strip of skin and pulled down, dragging more skin off his arm until it tore free.  His heart was racing as he stared at the thin scrap of flesh covering the palm of his hand before throwing it to the ground in disgust.  It didn’t hurt, and the itching had stopped where the skin was gone.  That was not right. 

He muttered a “What the Hell?” to himself.

He had no idea how long he was at it, continuing to itch.  He was pretty sure the Majini serving guard changed shifts at least twice while he was at it.  He scraped away skin like it was nothing.  he practically flayed himself alive tearing at the place the P30 pump had been, a layer of slate gray hiding below the pink flesh.  The white tile was beginning to go red from the wet strips of skin he had been tossing on the floor.

Chris Redfield continued to unravel himself and stare at what was underneath for far too long.  The gray underneath was not particularly sensitive; he barely felt when he tried to scratch it except when three of his fingernails got caught and came free as he dragged them across his shoulder, and although he managed to break the skin with his teeth, the pain passed in seconds.  He probed at the wound briefly, before eventually deciding that he really did not want to see what was underneath.

He swore he got closer to the door now than when he started.  A few inches closer, but closer nonetheless.  It took him too long to notice it was because his arms were longer; they reached almost halfway to his knees.  And the manacles felt tighter.  Thick veins throbbed by his skin.

He had no idea when they stopped by to feed him, only that when he briefly paused from tearing at his skin, a tray with a large chunk of bloody red meat lay at his feet.  He tore into it wildly, savagely.  It was several pounds of meat, and it was raw, but he downed it as fast as he could.  He bit down on it, tore chunks away from it, chewed rapidly, and swallowed until it was all gone.   Several of his teeth came out in the meat.  When he ran his swollen tongue along his mouth, there seemed more empty space than teeth he had counted.

He tried not to think about it.

Or the fact that, despite the meal, he still was hungry.  The bloody, cold meat was good, and he wanted more.  But after a short period of time that felt like a long period of time, he realized that he didn’t have the patience to wait for more food.  He needed some way to pass the time.

So he began scratching again.

* * *

Wesker always did enjoy watching his own handiwork.  The changes were rapid, and drastic.  Chris had regained the muscle mass lost from the starvation and torture and then some within a day.   The skin sloughing off was not wholly unexpected.  The look of confusion on Chris’s face when his hair came out in clumps until, scratching, he practically scalped himself, made Wesker glad they were recording.

They had lost one Majini the first day, as when they came to hose the dried blood and leftover scraps of his original skin off, one came a bit too close, to within Chris’s grasp despite the manacles.   Chris tore him limb from limb.  Some continued to stray a bit too close to their charge for safety’s sake, and Chris made it clear through his actions that he was displeased at the situation.  Excella had suggested that he was just bestial, nothing left, but there was something about the tone-shifting bellow of his, something in that cadence similar to how Chris used to yell “Wesker!”

More than a half dozen Majini and three technicians died fitting Chris with a new P30 pump.  Wesker had been concerned that the chemical could alter or temper the effects of the virus, so they waited until the mutations seemed to plateau.  By then he was a almost eight feet tall, slanted forward, walking on his legs and the knuckles of his taloned hands. 

Then the real work began.

They’d run out of lickers in the first week; pitting Chris against increasing numbers of them provided a useful baseline.  He replayed footage of a loping, gray monster tearing through a full dozen of the B.O.W.s at least five times in a row.  It dwarfed them and their claws and tongues had a hard time penetrating its hide. 

They learned another thing from the licker tests; Chris wasn’t quite done mutating yet.  He began manifesting random tendrils across it’s body, mainly from the torso and back.  Microscopic analysis showed the tendrils were remarkably similar in cell structure to a licker's tongues.  That was an _interesting feature_.  It reminded Wesker of certain tests run decades ago, started before he had even joined Umbrella.  He liked to think it was the man’s resourcefulness; more than once he’d gotten into some hellish situation with no idea what was going on and scrapped through it by using whatever he found.

More data was required.

Right now, Wesker was enjoying drone footage of a test pitting Chris against one of the Ndipaya villages.  As a test bed for the Type III plagas, they’d served their purpose, well, but they were expendable.  He didn’t expect Chris to pick up anything particularly interesting from them, but watching him engage Majini gave him a better picture of what to imagine when it came time to loose him on humans.  They’d move up to Majini armed with military grade firepower soon.

The door burst open and she entered like she owned the place.  The technicality that her money was behind the project didn’t matter.  He paused the video to let her speak.

“Here are the latest Uroboros test results.” Excella said, offering a file folder to him.  Wesker made no move to take it, so she added “Results are the same as always; nothing survives more than a few seconds.  It’s entirely too lethal.”

“Hm…” Wesker said, making a show of opening the folder and mock reading the reports. 

When he didn’t elaborate any further, Excella decided to chime in.  “I suppose we could recoup the loss selling it as a weapon.  If nothing else, the extreme lethality would be a key selling point.”

“Recoup the loss?” He asked, not letting his tone betray the fact he was bracing himself.  He was a visionary, hearing Excella rant on about numbers annoyed him.  Long ago, he might’ve cared how much was spent, back when he thought power was money.  Before he had set his sights on godhood.

“This operation has been massively expensive; the research staff alone…”

“...is going to terminated to ensure silence.” Wesker finished for her.  Why was he bothering him with these frivolities?  Why would she of all people, care about expense, strutting about a lab in an African marshland in designer dresses and jewelry?

“Yes, but Albert… that’s only part of it.  Construction of the lab was a massive cost, bribes to local governments to look the other way, and the B.O.W.s we give to Irving to sell barely recover the cost.” She said, throwing out worthless excuses.  “If we can’t attenuate Uroboros, we can’t use it for your plan… that’s still your plan, right?”

She was so _sure_ she’d be chosen.  If Uroboros ever worked as it was supposed to, she wasn’t going to like it.

Then she said, tentatively. “And there have been other expenses.”

“Such as?”

“Like… P30.” She said, guardedly.  She plainly knew she was treading on thin ice with this line of questioning, and, stupidly, she continued to tread.  “It’s an extremely expensive chemical to synthesize.  And… other people are starting to take notice.”

“So?”

“Keeping a constant stream of the chemical, especially given his… increased dosage requirements, is hard to do while remaining under the radar.” Excella bored him with corporate talk.  She was high up in the corporation and had nothing to fear.  She leaned in close to the monitor “Although he is quite the successful experiment.”

“Hm.” He nodded. 

“Can we mass-produce something like him?”

“I don’t think so.  The mutations are incongruent, we used a strain of the Progenitor virus straight from the flowers.  There is precedent for changes like he’s going through, although her case was much different in some key ways.”

She clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and then  said something that she had to know was only going to get under his skin.  “What do you think a B.O.W. like that would catch on the market.  Tyrants, especially newer models fetch a healthy price, and he’d be at least at this range.”

“We’re not selling him.” Wesker said, and that was that.  He deflected her further points, annoyed that she still did not _get it_.  She should've been well aware of how much interest he had in hearing her excuses.  When Excella was gone, he queued up another video, another fine performance of Chris's.  It was in Chris's room, and the camera, positioned near the front of the room, captured Wesker walking in.  Chris had dwarfed him by that point, was magnificent... and was entirely in his hands.

"Sit." On the video, Wesker commanded.  Chris obliged.  Wesker gave instructions; lean back, spread your legs, keep your balance.  All to provide him, and the camera a better view.   By this time Chris's changes had an impact on their activities during off time.  They had fucked a few times, Chris huge form awkwardly splayed facedown on the ground, but the cloaca that he had was nowhere near as tight as his ass had been.  It wasn't quite as satisfying to fuck him.

It was still satisfying, maybe even moreso, to force him to perform. To have Chris sit open for him, and slide those tentacles all over his body, each inch of enhanced muscle.  To make him penetrate himself an then watch the big, red organ unsheathe itself.  Chris fucked himself for Wesker, diligently obeying every instruction.  That, the obedience was maybe more intriguing than the physical changes.  Then again, watching tendrils slide across that ridged, tapering cock, while despite the control Chris groaned as he fucked himself, was quite arousing on its own.  This was true both for Wesker on the video, and Wesker sitting at his desk watching the video.

On the monitor, once Chris came he dutifully dragged his tongue along his belly and the floor to clean the mess up, then held his mouth open for Wesker to relieve the tension.  Out of the video, Wesker was gripping his cock and jacking himself off; using his free hand to rewind particular moments.  Chris sitting on command.  Chris's cock, throbbing red against his pale underbelly.  The eruption of cum when Chris finally had enough.  

Wesker came similarly. 

* * *

He was manacled again.  This was purely precautionary; the pump hadn’t run out of P30 yet, and his limbs weren’t his own.  At least, that was the plan.  He’d kept changing, and they hadn’t noticed.  Maybe he just started growing immune on his own.  Maybe it was the plagas he’d eaten in the Majini; they were mind control parasites after all.  Maybe it was the crocodile, something something lizard brain?  Whatever the reason, things were coming into focus again.  But he had to be careful. 

The Tricell personnel were just being meticulous about ensuring he had frequent refills.  Technichians milled about and he _wished_ he could reach out and maul every last one of them.  They were helping Wesker, so they’d deserve it.  That was it.  They were helping Wesker, so he hated them all and wanted to kill them.  He definitely wasn’t thinking about how they would taste.

But he had to play it cool.  He had to wait.  Because the last thing he wanted was to let anyone know that the random twitching of the tentacles wasn’t _quite_ random involuntary movement.  At least, not now.

A man Chris came to think of as the doctor of the group drew blood, took his temperature and blood pressure, and shined a light in his eyes.  Clipboard man milled about, repeating every reading that the doctor told him while presumably scribbling it down.  Chris used to try, and fail to tear off the doctor’s hand.  But assuming he actually was building up resistance, he didn't try this time, didn't want to chance it at all.

This part of the routine annoyed him.   

He heard the heels tapping against the floor well before she appeared in the corridor and then entered the room.  Excella Gionne sauntered in, clipboard man quick to move out of the way.   This was a break from the routine.  That was almost never a good thing.  She turned to clipboard man.  “Everything all right?”

When she got confirmation that everything appeared within normal limits, she nodded and told them all to leave the room.  This was the first time they’d ever been alone.  He’d seen her plenty of times before, of course, hanging behind Wesker with a smug look on her face, thinking she was a queen when she was just a pawn.  God he hated her.  Almost as much as Wesker himself.  Wanted to tear her face off.  He could do it, too.

But that’d have to wait.

“Can you understand me?”

He nodded, because she could give him orders, and since she wanted to ask a question he was obligated to let her.  He tried not to think about tearing her limb from limb.  He wondered how much of a conversation she expected to get out of him; because he hadn’t learned how to talk quite right yet. 

“Do you like your situation?”

He growled and shook his head.  That was a stupid fucking question; after years of torture and rape, he was a monster.  Why the sudden interest?  She wasn’t a fucking humanitarian.

“You repulse me.”  He’d seen himself in mirrors, and yeah, that sounded right.  Of course, he still wanted to peel Excella’s skin off and toss whatever was left into a salt mine.  He’d file that as something to be done later. “I don’t see why Albert is so obsessed with you.”

Oh, she _was_ jealous.  Of the attention Wesker constantly gave to Chris, separate from pretty much everything Wesker did to him.  Wesker was paying attention to him and not her.  It was odd, this was the first time she deigned discuss her situation with him, the first time she acknowledged him as anything other than a piece of furniture or a decoration Wesker had.  He let out a snort he hoped she would take as derision.

“But we have something in common…” She paused.  Christ this woman was annoying.  If she kept this up, he’d carve his own ear out. “…he’s used us both.”

“The company, we… I footed the bill for him because I assumed he would change the world.  Instead, he failed and spends all his time having his fun with you.”

Was Chris supposed to feel sorry that to Excella?  She was fine aiding and abetting Wesker, and only found him objectionable because she felt she was owed a bigger piece of the pie.   She wasn’t doing herself any favors in his estimation of her by passing the buck.  He forced himself to zone out while she yammered, because he noticed his tentacles were starting to curl towards her tensing up in preparation to strike.  That was a good sign, but he had to be very careful.

She babbled on and on, about how Wesker had used them both, how she had risked everything on his plans only to watch him play around with his whore, which by her gestures and tone she meant Chris, then asked if he understood.  When he shook his head, she abruptly turned and left.

Apparently even she needed someone to vent to.

Even if that someone needed every ounce of willpower not to tear her to shreds.

* * *

It had been some time since they had last been alone, and even longer since they talked.  Actual conversation, not simply ordering Chris to pleasure himself for Wesker's pleasure.  He made sure Chris aroused himself first though; wanted to make sure Chris knew he had _everything_ in hand.  Chris towered over him, although there was nothing to worry about with regards to him.  Wesker walked up to him and wrapped his hand around Chris’s cock, feeling it throb against his gloved hand.  Their size disparity presented a few difficulties to work out, but that was fine.  They had some excellent news to discuss.

“You know, Chris… the BSAA happens to be be investigating reports of bioterrorist activity in Kijuju.”  Wesker said, nodding appreciatively as Chris stiffened in his hand.

Chris remained silent, eyes on him.  As it should’ve been.

“I’m eager to test you against them."  There would be no better proof of his superiority than watching Chris slaughter his comrades, tearing them limb from limb and having Chris kneel prostrate before him.  “And I’m sure you’re looking forward to the reunion.  My sources tell me that the West African branch will be having backup from the North American branch.  Agent Dechant will be leading a strike team.  You’ve worked with him before, right?”

A nod.

“Do you know who else will be coming?”  Wesker punctuated the next point by gently squeezing the head of Chris’s cock.  “None other than our old colleague, Jill Valentine."

Chris stiffened up in Wesker's hand.  It was hardly a secret they were interested in each other beyond professional partnership.  It was sinking in.  Jill was coming here to stop Wesker, when Wesker knew she was an route and had something she couldn’t hope to fight.  Chris knew he’d be sent to stop her.  What was going on in his head?  Thinking of their time before Chris became Wesker’s property?  Worrying about what Wesker would have him do?

Wesker grinned as he continued to work the man.  “Do you think she could every appreciate you like you are now?”

Chris shook his head from side to side.  A no.

Wesker chuckled at that, and picked up the pace.  “Of course not.  Nobody could, except me.  I’ve crafted you into something perfect.  Perhaps we can reverse engineer something from you to make Uroboros better.  That would be excellent.”

Chris remained silent.

“Back to Jill.”  Wesker said, refocusing Chris’s attention.  That would be the ultimate demonstration of how much power he had over Chris, to make him harm Valentine.  “Now what should we do with her when she arrives?  She’d definitely cause trouble, she’s good for that, as you know.  Of course, she’d be no match for you. I think I’d quite like for you to bring me her head.”

Chris blinked and shook a little.  He was getting close.  Wesker increased his pace.

“Although, it might be better to capture her.  I’m sure she’d be excited at catching up with her old S.T.A.R.S. comrades.”  Wesker said, grinning.  She was almost as much of a pest as Chris was, and she was so unique.  “And I’d be interested to see how she lasts under the same care that I’ve shown you.”

Chris growled loud enough to be felt.  Then something coiled around Wesker’s leg and tightened.

* * *

Wesker _was_ too fast.  He always was.  He’d proved it countless times; even inhuman as he was now, Chris wasn’t sure he could keep up in a straight fight.  So he had to wait, weeks for the P30 to fade entirely, then for Wesker to come to gloat, and then waiting for an opportunity.  It was agonizingly slow going, but Wesker distracted himself with the supervillain bullshit for him.  And now Wesker’s options to dodge were a lot more limited.  Playing along with Wesker sickened him, but he’d had years to get accustomed to it.  He just needed an opening.

The tentacles lashed out.  He could feel something warm, and taste something metallic as they found their target, digging into skin and coiling around his limbs.  Then he slammed his jaws shut on Wesker’s shoulder.  Hard enough to feel bone between his teeth.

The pained howl that rung in his ears was long, long, _long_ overdue.

Wesker repeatedly struck with the palm of his free hand to the side of Chris’s head, causing the world to dissolve into stars for a split second with every impact.  For his part, Chris simply bit down harder and swung his arms wildly.

There was no finesse to his swings, only raw power and claws.  But Wesker had nowhere to run to, no way to duck and leap and sidestep.  His claws met resistance with every swing, hitting something solid and slowing as they tore their way through.  Wesker found one of his eyes and _gouged_ , causing Chris to let him go.  Tentacles uncoiled or were torn free as   

Wesker hopped back; not a leap, not a dive, an off-balance hop backwards.  He paused for a moment, obviously slowed by the deep furrows in his abdomen, dripping red onto the polished tile floor.  His hands were struggling to keep something inside from spilling outside.

Too bad for him.

Chris slammed into him hard; knocking Wesker down.  A kick meant for Chris’s snout met his open jaws instead.  Teeth were knocked loose, but those were something thing he had plenty of to spare.  They pierced through the leather of Weskers boot and into flesh.  Chris doubled his efforts and the tiny metatarsal bones ground against each other and broke.

Something in Wesker’s leg, his knee or his ankle, snapped as Chris thrashed his head around. He whipped around and opened his jaws, sending Wesker flying into a wall; leaving a massive bloodstain on impact.  He staggered to his feet, looking less like the invincible maniac with god delusions and more like he did back in the mansion, skewered by the Tyrant.  Chris wondered if this was just like old times for Wesker when he stomped forward and drove his right hand forward.

There was no super speed anymore, no lightning quick, casual dodge.  It seemed Wesker couldn’t just shrug off the massive wounds in his guts and his leg.  He sort of tried to lean out of the way, but he ended up pinned against the way, screaming silently through perforated lungs.  Their eyes met.

He looked _surprised_.

Wesker had survived being impaled before.  He could come back from this. 

Which was why Chris was very meticulous.  After snapping his jaws shut around Wesker’s head and worrying it until it crunched and was wrenched free, he was very careful about tearing Wesker limb from limb and then tearing his limbs apart at the joints and then removing the organs from his trunk.

 He had three years of revenge fantasies to work out.

By the time that was over, what was left of Albert Wesker was spread over the floor, walls, and ceiling, tinting the overhead lights. 

And Chris Redfield turned to leave the room.

* * *

Sheva kept her MP-5 shouldered as she walked down the corridors, following on the heels of Jill Valentine.  This facility was massive—the work of years to construct, even if Tricell had the skeleton of Umbrella’s original facility to work with.  The look on Jill Valentine’s face when she pulled the vines away to reveal that logo was terrifying.  How had the world missed this place when Umbrella went down?  This was the source of _everything_.  The birthplace of the B.O.W. age.

Then Tricell, one of the BSAA’s primary financial backers, was doing the exact thing that the BSAA was formed to combat was shocking to the core.  That this place, built on top of a cave in a swamp in a warzone nobody outside seemed to care about, was the source of everything chilled her.  But not as much as the condition of the facility.

“Think a Tyrant did this?” Sheva asked, looking over the piles of shredded Majini, rifle at the ready.  They’d been carved open by blades with a large cross section—claws.  Furrows were rent in the walls and ceiling as well.

“Could be.” Jill said, noncommittally. 

They were silent for a while.  They’d had a Hell of a fight getting to this facility, but something had, very recently given the state of the corpses, went through it and turned it into an abattoir.  After the giant crab that had been in the elevator, not having any opposition was a blessing, but it also suggested that there was something the two of them would have to deal with.   Every room was turned over, marked by the thing’s presence. 

That the thing had killed all the Majini was not a problem.  That every so often they heard screams, gunfire and snarling, was.  They were getting closer and closer to the source, which meant sooner or later they would have to deal with whatever had been killing everything here.  Taking a deep breath, Sheva said “Jill.”

The older woman kept her eyes forward, stepping carefully over a dismembered torso.  “Yes?”

Jill had charged headfirst into insane risks once she found that Irving might’ve been connected to an old partner of hers, thought long dead.  Chris Redfield, her fellow Raccoon City survivor.  Jill went through the near-total devastation of both BSAA teams and countless Majini and worse.  Sheva followed without question.  This situation went deep, and someone had to get to the bottom of it, no matter the casualties.

And if they could rescue Chris Redfield, Jill would not be stopped.  According to her, ‘Chris would do the same for me’.

But now some B.O.W. was meticulously murdering his way throughout the facility.   When the pause became unbearable, Sheva said “If Chris is here, I’m sure he’s been staying out of the things way.”

“Yeah.  He might’ve killed it.” She shot back. 

They wandered labs full of destroyed computers, until they heard a scream.  Very close.  It wasn’t that of a majini, guttural and raspy.  It was high pitched, and until it devolved into gurgling, was clear.  It was a woman’s scream.  The two agents rushed towards the sound, bursting through a door into another corridor.

A woman was held parallell to the ground in the clutches of something gigantic.  It wasn’t exactly a tyrant, but Sheva was at a loss to describe what it was.  The woman’s head and legs were held in two large, wickedly clawed hands, connected to two long arms; they were at least as thick around as Sheva’s thigh but they were so long they looked thin.  The thing was hunched over; it might’ve been a foot and a half taller than she was, but it was a lot longer.  Tendrils with tips covered in red liquid flailed.

Beady eyes, set deep in its skull looked at them.  Those were the only part of its head clearly visible, as it’s muzzle was buried in the abdomen of the woman, massive, U-shaped pieces missing from her side.  Sheva and Jill leveled their weapons at it.

The thing dropped the woman onto a pile of dead and dying majini at its clawed digitigrade feet and bounded down the hallway, away from them.   Jill rushed after for a brief moment, before slowing to a halt; the thing moved forward rapidly on all fours, tendrils trailing behind it.  Sheva took a knee next to the woman.  Her face was unrecognizable; her head was a mass of meat, broken bone, and brown hair.  But, given what had been an expensive looking dress and the jewelry, Sheva felt confident this was Excella Gionne.  A quick search of the body netted her an ID card confirming that.  “This thing killed Excella.”

That was a loss.  They had hoped to capture her.  She had a lot to answer for and had to know a lot about the underground bioweapons trade.  She was rich enough to afford the best lawyers, but someone that accustomed to leisure and luxury, whose actions here demonstrated that she had no concern for human life, would flip on her comrades if she thought it’d save her skin.

“Why didn’t it charge us?” Jill said.  Sheva almost asked why, but didn’t.  That was a good question.  The thing obviously had no problem attacking people with firearms, so why did it flee rather than fight?  They looked at each other and went down the corridor. 

The trail it left was obvious. 

They could occasionally hear it create a racket up ahead, but then go silent.  It was stopping, then running off when they got close.  It was leading them somewhere.  That was not a comforting thought. 

They reached a T-shaped junction.  Lying in the middle of the floor was an open laptop, a severed charging cord still hanging from it’s port.  It was on and not secured.  Obvious trap.  Jill took a few steps towards it.  “Cover me.”

Sheva stood over Jill, looking at the three directions an attack could come from.  She wasn’t paying any attention to Jill, typing at the keyboard and muttering to herself.  They had to get out of here.  Whatever the thing was, it had led them here for a reason.  And given it was a B.O.W., there was no reason to think it was anything other than a trap.

Jill slammed the laptop shut, and stood.  She let out a sharp breath, and looked at Sheva.  “C’mon, we need to find him.”

Him.  She was still looking for Chris.  The idea that no one was left behind was strong in the BSAA, but there was something more to this.  Sheva was not aware of how her partner had allegedly died, but she was left with the idea that Jill somehow felt responsible.

They continued, Jill following the trail of carnage at a near run, which broke out into a full sprint at the sound of more fighting.  Majini screamed and died, and Kalashnikovs fired, and something roared, and they reached it in time to see.

The thing’s back was leathery, covered in unevenly-distributed bumps and plates.  It was standing up to full height, and Sheva had to crane her neck.  A Majini was skewered on the claws of one of its hands.  The meat on the floor was the rest of its squad. 

It dropped the Majini and turned.  Looked at them through he beady, deep set eyes. Gray skin was stretched almost to the breaking point over a heavy skull. The thing had a relatively short muzzle, with jagged teeth jutting from its closed jaws randomly. A pair of deep, black pits at the end of its snout flared slightly with every wheezing breath the thing too. Its chest and belly were smooth and rubbery, and bulged outward with every breath. The tendrils reached the floor, twitching.  The thing had a relatively short muzzle, with jagged teeth jutting from its closed jaws randomly.  The tendrils reached the floor, twitching. 

Sheva leveled her gun at it’s head.  It hunched down, turned away like it was afraid.  In profile, one eye continued to stare.  At Jill Valentine.  It suddenly struck Sheva that they had found _him_.  That was confirmed when it tensed up, ready to bolt again, and Jill yelled out.  “Chris!”

The monster turned and looked over its shoulder.  “Please.  Just…”

It turned back around, hunching down more to put itself at eye level with the women. Closer, and from this angle, the brown color of his eyes stood out a little more against the dark hide surrounding them, and they showed a bit more humanity.   Sheva lowered her gun as Jill took a few steps forward and held out a hand.  Chris leaned back.  Jill leaned forward. “I… we need to find Wesker.  For everything he did to you.”

Chris shook his head.  Not side to side, really, more rotating it partway clockwise, then counter.

There was a pause, while Jill looked him over. “You killed him?”

An unmistakable nod, which Jill returned.  Jill turned and looked at Sheva, then back at Chris.  She raised her hand and, in a voice that sounded like she wasn’t sure if she was going to laugh or cry, gestured between Sheva and the monster.  “Chris, this is Sheva Alomar, my partner. Sheva, this is Chris Redfield…”

The pause was long, and Jill managed to force a smile before adding “…my partner.”

**Author's Note:**

> This ended up being a lot longer than I thought it'd be. I started actually before assignments were sent, and it evolved and progressed in ways I hadn't always expected. For instance, I was struggling with coming up with something to change Chris with, then remembered a type of sea slug that eats jellyfish and steals their stinging cells, and decided to base his mutations around that... then remembered that was sort of Lisa's deal in Wesker's report, then I remembered Lisa was just injected with the progenitor virus at first, and that came from the Stairway to the Sun...


End file.
